


the conversations we've had 'til 4am

by interstellarbeams



Series: conversations 'verse [1]
Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Michelle is a plant lady, Ned is their neighbor, Peter is a horrible barista
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-24
Updated: 2017-07-24
Packaged: 2018-12-06 10:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11599197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interstellarbeams/pseuds/interstellarbeams
Summary: Peter Parker needed a new roommate and fast, but he never imagined that he would be living with his pseudo-friend from high school, Michelle Jones.





	the conversations we've had 'til 4am

**Author's Note:**

> I can't even believe how long this fic became but it all came together when my beta took over. Nora ([GreenFish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenFish)) is a miracleworker, godsend and an angel. I know how busy you are and I'm so happy that you managed to turn this word vomit into something worth reading. 
> 
> Many more thanks go out to all my friends who continuously encouraged me during this process. Sarah, Kim, Denise, and so many others, you know who you are. And Corinne for yelling at me everyday about it (you were that excited). lol Thank you for being such amazing friends and an amazing support group. 
> 
> The idea for this fic came to me before the movie was even released so I hope I wrote everyone's personalities to canon but keep in mind this is an au.
> 
> Title comes from the song Cross My Mind by A R I Z O N A. 
> 
> Anyways, enough of my rambling, enjoy the fic! And tell me what you think. Pretty please?

The setting sun sparkled on the surface of a million tiny dew drops of water, making the blacktop appear as iridescent as the ocean at midday. The afternoon rain had caused the humidity to spike. Peter could feel the sleeves of his hooded sweatshirt sticking to the sides of his arms, and he pushed them up to his elbows in irritation. The scenery might have normally dazzled the eye of Peter's photographic muse - that was, if he had been paying attention to anything but the throbbing pain of his feet, the unrelenting heat, and the dreaded climb up a sweltering stairwell that awaited him as he reached the building of the apartment he shared with his roommate, Michelle.

 

Michelle hadn't been Peter's first choice, his second or --  _ hell,  _ even his  _ third  _ choice of a roommate. His previous roommate had ditched him earlier that summer to take a hiking trip through Europe, and with the end of the month drawing near, Peter had grown desperate for someone -  _ anyone  _ \- to help him shoulder the burden of the rent.  

 

He had gone to high school with Michelle, and although he didn't know her very well, she had been in a few of his classes and occasionally sat with him and Ned at lunch. He knew that she hadn't existed in the upper echelons of high school society, either. She had been right down at the bottom of the food chain, just like him. 

 

Still, Michelle was a very odd duck, even to Peter’s geek-tuned personality. In a school with four thousand students, she certainly had stood out as one of the weirdest of the bunch. 

 

It wasn't like Peter didn't get it, because he  _ did _ ; it was hard to fit in in high school to begin with.  But in addition to being socially awkward, Michelle also had extremely strong opinions on nearly every subject, which caused her to stick out even more.  Peter had always mostly kept to his few friends, preferring not to make waves if possible. 

 

The thing about Michelle was that, despite being super smart and having opinions on  _ everything _ , she was still a loner, the only child of a highly sought-after surgeon father and a judge mother.  From what he’d heard, she hadn’t been allowed to socialize with kids of her own age until she was ten or eleven years old, as her family traveled a lot.  Her main companions growing up had been her tutor and nannies.  

 

Nonetheless, Michelle was a certified genius.  She’d shown him her Mensa card once, which he hadn’t known was actually a thing people had, let alone, carried on them.

 

Michelle was also sarcastic, witty and mysterious, with a very unique personal style. Her quirks had always fascinated him. 

 

The thing was:  he had never imagined  _ living  _ with her.  They had never been friends like  _ that _ .

 

The squeal of a garbage truck's overused brakes pierced Peter’s ears, making him wince. Grumbling under his breath, he made his way up the front steps of the apartment building and buzzed his number, too lazy to dig his keys out of the bottom of his bag.

 

“It’s me,” he grunted into the speaker, and the front door clicked loudly as it unlocked. Sparing a longing glance towards the building’s perpetually out-of-order elevator, Peter began the six floor ascent to his apartment. The smell filtering down the dimly lit stairwell was reminiscent of potting dirt, mothballs and Mrs. Goldberg’s knishes. The squawk of their super’s parrot echoed in his brain as the pounding in his temples intensified. Praying for his quick and untimely death for at least the tenth time that day, Peter trudged the rest of the way up the stairs with a grimace.

 

Green paint was chipping around the corners of the peephole to his apartment, and the bottom portion of the door looked as if some extremely hungry nocturnal animals had been gnawing at it, but it was his home.  At least, it was all he could afford at the moment.  And he’d made it in one piece, so there was that.

 

Unlocking the door and pushing his way in, he slid off his jacket in relief, laying it on the table by the door.

 

“Yo! Anybody here?  _ Michelle? _ ” Peter called out, the squeaking of the door hinges the only sound in the small, sparsely furnished living area. He wiped his feet on the doormat, and slipped off his shoes, listening for the sound of typewriter keys, or any sound that would indicate Michelle’s presence in the apartment.  She’d answered the buzzer, so he assumed she was somewhere.

 

Shrugging at the silence, Peter headed down the short hallway to the bathroom. After flushing  _ and  _ washing his hands, he exited the room, almost tripping over a wrinkly brown and white dog sprawled in the middle of the doorway. The dog’s lip was curled down on one side, a string of drool dripping down on the hardwood floor, a perpetual hangdog look in his eyes. 

 

“ _ Goblin,  _ what are you--?” Peter sputtered, staring down at the dog, quizzically, as he caught himself against the doorjamb. 

 

“Your dog is lazy. Did you know that?” Michelle’s voice punched the silence in the room.

 

“Holy shit!” Peter yelped, pressing his hand to his chest. “Don't  _ do  _ that!”

 

“Sorry,” Michelle laughed, as she slipped through the window that led out to the fire escape, and pulled it closed, before finally turning around to face him.  “Your dog is lazy. Did you know that?” she asked again, repeating the question in a dry, almost bored voice.

 

Peter stared at her for a minute, willing his brain to make sense of her words.  “What?” he asked.  “Why?”

 

“He let a pigeon in again. I had to chase it around the apartment with the flyswatter before I finally got it back out the window,” Michelle explained.

 

“What?  Really?  Um, yeah.  Sorry about that. He was a stray before I picked him up, ya know? There's no telling what his former owners let him do.” Peter bent down to pet said nuisance on his belly, scraping his fingers back and forth across the dog's chest and stomach. 

 

“Or  _ didn't _ teach him,” Michelle sniped, frowning. She mumbled something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “ _ \-- turning this place into a zoo _ .”

 

Michelle was still standing in front of him, staring, her arms hanging akimbo, her hair its usual dark tangle across her forehead with a pencil stuck behind her ear. After realizing that he wasn't going to say anything else, she crossed to her bedroom and closed the door.

 

Peter looked down at Goblin, perhaps hoping for a friendly ear, when he realized the dog had fallen asleep under his ministrations. Goblin’s loud snores sounded gross and phlegmatic and Peter sighed as he headed into the living room, flopping down on the old, raggedy brown sofa.  Laying his arm across his eyes, he quickly fell asleep. 

  
  


 

* * *

 

 

 

Peter woke suddenly, realizing that the sound of Goblin’s whine and his paws scratching at the door had been what had awoken him. Sitting up, Peter pushed his hands through his hair, and scrubbed them across his face in an attempt to re-energize himself. He reached for the blanket covering his legs, and threw it across the back of the couch, the bright blue and white batik print catching his eye, as he realized it was usually draped across the end of Michelle's bed.   _ Had she put the blanket on him? _

 

“Huh.” Peter got to his feet, glancing around. There was no light shining from underneath her door, and the lights in the small kitchen were all off. Michelle was nowhere in sight. 

 

The dog's excited yips reminded Peter of his current task. 

 

“All right, all right, I’m coming,” he cajoled the dog as he put on his sneakers and grabbed his jacket. He cursed and popped his thumb into his mouth as his finger caught on the small potted cactus sitting there. 

 

“Stupid plant,” Peter grumbled as he hooked Goblin to his leash and headed out the door. 

 

After Goblin completed his business and Peter picked it up with a grimace, he made his way back inside.

 

“Good boy,” Peter crooned, patting the dog on the head and stroking his ears as he released the leash clasp. Goblin trotted over to his water bowl, gobbling up his water quickly while sloshing water all over the floor. 

 

“ _ Goblin _ ,” Peter sighed. “Messy dog,” he muttered as he mopped up the water with a kitchen towel.

 

Heading back into the tiny kitchen, he pulled the milk out of the fridge. Peter held the carton for a few moments, considering, before he unscrewed the lid and brought the jug to his lips. He wiped his mouth across his forearm and placed the jug back into the fridge. Turning around, he almost got his third scare of the day. 

 

“Michelle, hey!” Peter leaned against the counter, crossing his arms against his chest, hoping she hadn't been standing there longer than a few seconds. 

 

“That's disgusting,” Michelle stated, the bag of potato chips she held in her hand crinkling as she munched on them. 

 

She was wearing a black vinyl jacket with “Sampson County Playoffs - Go Yellowjackets!” written across the back in yellow.  This was odd, because Peter had never known Michelle to play sports, or participate in any group activities, for that matter.  Not to mention he’d never heard of Sampson County, either.  He supposed it was meant to be ironic.

 

She must have just come in, he thought, doing who knew what. Peter certainly didn't know. 

 

“Uh, sorry. I’ll get us new milk tomorrow.” He felt himself blushing under the heat of Michelle’s glare.  He needed to settle the score.  “So, is that what you're having for dinner?” he asked, gesturing at her bag of chips.

 

“Maybe.  Why?” Michelle questioned, one eyebrow quirked. 

 

“It's not very nutritious, that's all.” Peter said as he turned back to the fridge, pulling out a jar of jelly and reaching into a separate cabinet for the peanut butter. 

 

Michelle came around the corner of the butcher block, skirting the edge of the dog’s water bowl while eyeing the dog with distrust. 

 

“He won't bite, you know?” Peter reassured her as he spread peanut butter on a piece of bread. 

 

“Oh, yeah. I  _ mean _ \-- I know. He's just so slobbery.” Michelle frowned, removing her jacket and slinging it over the back of her chair, the shoulder of her wide-necked top sliding over her shoulder and revealing a plain white bra strap.  

 

Quickly glancing away, Peter finished making the sandwich before placing it down in front of her at the table. 

 

“PB&J, huh?” she asked. “You know this is barely considered a food by our government, right?” Michelle poked at it, experimentally, before methodically peeling away the dark outer crust. 

“My parents never let me have sandwiches when I was little. It was always gourmet meals in the formal dining room.”

 

“Where I come from, we eat our bread white, our peanut butter creamy, and our jelly teeth-rotting sweet. Just like Aunt May always made.” He shrugged, smiling down at her, before sitting in the chair across from hers at the table. 

 

“What did they ever do to you?” Peter teased, gesturing towards the pile of bread crust. 

 

“Huh? Oh.” Michelle rolled her eyes at him. “Nothing, I just don't like crusts. Gotta problem?” 

 

“Nah.” Peter put out his hands in a placating gesture, watching as she gingerly lifted the sandwich to her lips, before he crossed his arms self-consciously and leaned against the nicked tabletop. 

 

She still looked skeptical but she bit into it, chewing slowly.  Michelle mumbled something and Peter leaned forward in an attempt to hear what she was saying. “What was that?” Peter teased, laughing at the annoyed look that crossed her face.

 

Swallowing, she pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. “ _ I said _ , it would have been nice to have some milk.”

 

“How about I make you some tea instead?” Peter offered, an apologetic look crossing his face.

 

Michelle wrinkled up her nose, adorably --  _ wait, did I just think that? --  _ and shook her head no. 

 

“I thought you  _ liked  _ herbal tea,” Peter said. “It's like your catnip!”

 

“Well… the way  _ you  _ make it?” Michelle fiddled with the crusts that she had peeled off the edge of the bread. “It’s more like my kryptonite!”

 

Peter scoffed. “Well, I’m  _ so sorry  _ we can't all be perfect tea brewers. _ ”   _ Bowing his head, he picked at a deep gouge in the old wooden table with his fingernail, glancing up quickly to steal a look at her face.

 

Michelle almost looked contrite, until she noticed the trembling at the corner of his lips. 

 

Peter burst out laughing as she shoved the chair back from the table abruptly and stormed past him in the direction of her room.  Panicked, he grabbed her wrist to keep her from escaping.  Why was she mad?  He was the one being insulted!

 

“Wait, wait. Michelle… I’m sorry! I was just messing with you!”  

 

She glared in his direction, and then looked down at where he was holding onto her wrist. 

 

Suddenly feeling self-conscious, he let go.  “Listen - I’m sorry, okay?  I didn’t mean anything by it.  Sit back down, will you?”

 

Staring back at him, Michelle's face gave away nothing, but she sat back down again. 

 

“You know,” she said after a moment’s silence, “for a barista, you really suck at making hot beverages. How do you keep that job, anyways?” 

 

Peter wasn't about to tell her about all the girls his age who came into  _ Brooklyn Coffee _ every day just to flirt and smile at him while he fumbled behind the counter at the cappuccino machine. 

 

“Dunno,” Peter shrugged instead, relaxing against the back of the chair. 

 

Michelle tilted her head to the side, still eyeing him suspiciously. 

 

“What?” he asked nonchalantly, expecting her to ask about Goblin again.

 

“Are you seeing anyone currently?” 

 

_ Where had that come from?  Did she somehow know what he was thinking? _

 

“Huh?” Peter stood in front of her, dumbfounded, unexpected thoughts about Michelle swirling around his head.

 

“Are you having intercourse with anyone?” she asked even more bluntly this time, her eyes boring into his own. 

 

Peter felt flabbergasted.  _ Was she for  _ real  _ right now?  _

 

Michelle sat across from him, an expectant look upon her face, chewing the last bite of her sandwich, as the edge of her top rested teasingly against the slope of her shoulder, making Peter gulp.

 

“N-no, I’m not seeing anyone,” he stuttered out, his heartbeat pounding in his ears and his breath constricting in his throat.

 

“Good, I didn't want to have to worry about you interrupting my REM cycle with your shenanigans.” She popped up from her chair and crossed the room to her bedroom, shutting the door swiftly behind her. 

 

Peter shook his head in disbelief and stared down at Goblin where he laid, lethargically, by his feet. 

 

“Can you  _ believe  _ her?” Peter asked, before getting up from the table, flipping off the lights and heading to his room. Goblin’s tags jingled as he trotted after him. 

 

 

* * *

 

  
The next day Peter overslept; his night owl tendencies and penchant for sleeping in had caught up to him. The truth was, he had become so distracted by Michelle’s questions the night before, he had forgotten to set his alarm and now he was rushing around, trying to put on a shoe with one hand, while brushing his teeth with the other. 

 

He yelled out at Goblin to be good while he was gone, grabbed a banana and rushed out the door, wheeling his bicycle into the hallway. Hurriedly, he pounded on his neighbor’s door. 

 

“Ned, come  _ on _ , Ned! We're going to be late for work if you don't come on!” 

 

“Keep your briefs on!” Ned called back to him, wheeling his bike out into the hallway as he turned the key in the lock and followed Peter down the stairs. 

 

They had to carry their bikes down six flights of stairs, so by the time they reached the sidewalk outside their building, they were both sweaty and annoyed with the situation. 

 

_ Stupid elevator, stupid super, stupid cheap-ass apartment. _

 

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, they walked side by side, moving as quickly as possible as they dodged around children at play, dog walkers with their gaggle of furry clients and the interminable construction that always blocked some area of the city off from pedestrians. 

 

“Dude,” Peter said, “you won't believe what Michelle asked me last night. We were just sitting there talking, and all of a sudden she asked me if I had a  _ sexual partner _ .”  

 

Ned blinked rapidly, staring back at Peter, with a shocked look on his face. “She did  _ what?”  _ Ned’s voice raised to shrieking heights on the last syllable. A flock of pigeons, their feathers grey and blue-green in the early sunlight, took off at the disturbance. 

 

Peter looked around nervously, uncomfortably aware that they were in public and people were staring.

 

“Dude, quiet!” Peter warned, exasperated. 

 

“Sorry.” Ned didn't look remotely sorry, but Peter let it go as they stopped at a intersection. “Apparently she doesn't realize how much of a  _ loser  _ you were in high school.” Ned teased.

 

“Come  _ on _ , I went out with a couple girls in high school, they just weren't my type,” Peter spat out. “Like you're one to talk, anyway.  Also - you know she hung out with us some in high school and she's a genius, so I’m pretty sure she noticed how little game I had.”

 

The street looked clear and the green ‘walk’ sign lit up so Peter hopped on his bike and started to cross the street. A bright light suddenly shone off a parked car’s windshield, straight into his eyes. 

 

“ _ Peter! _ ” a worried shout echoed in his head, right before the screech of brakes warned him too late of what was coming. 

 

The next thing he knew, he was waking up on the pavement with no idea how he had gotten there. 

 

“Dude, are you okay?” Ned asked.  Peter blinked, watching Ned worriedly crumple his cap he’d been wearing before between his hands. 

 

He looked around and saw other concerned faces peering down at him, as multiple hands reached down to help him sit up. Peter’s head spun as the blood rushed back into it, and he groaned audibly as pain shot through his body. 

 

Multiple voices surrounded him --  _ Are you okay? What happened? Is he okay? The jerk didn't even stop!   _ \-- but all his thoughts were focused on the sight of his precious red bike lying twelve feet away, its back wheel bent at an odd angle.  

 

Dragging his eyes away from the sorry sight, he looked around at the people milling about, waiting for the police or presumably, for something more exciting to happen. Cell phones had been pulled out, and he was sure that tweets, texts and photos of his accident were being sent out all across the city.  How embarrassing.

 

“That's the last time I try a tail-whip, I’ll stick to the bunny hop instead.” Peter joked weakly, trying to play it off despite the pain in his head, arm and side.

 

Ned crouched down next to him, placing his hand on Peter's shoulder gently, “Peter, hey, uh...it’ll be okay, buddy. I called the cops, and they should be here soon to take you to the hospital.” 

 

Peter groaned in pain, but also at the thought of the cash he would have to shell out to pay for a trip to the hospital. 

 

_ Stupid low income job. Shit, I don't have insurance, do I? I’ll have to call Aunt May and ask. _

 

“And I -- uh,” Ned stopped, looking slightly uncomfortable. 

 

“What?” Peter asked, looking down at his body, as if expecting their to be some problem he didn't already know about. He gripped his side, where the pain felt the most intense. 

 

“Well, I called Michelle. Um, her number was in your phone, and ah, you're going to need somebody to take you home. I know Aunt May is out of the country and you don't have another emergency contact besides me, and if I miss another shift I’ll never make this month’s rent--” Ned rambled on, barely pausing for breath.

 

“Ned,  _ Ned _ , dude.  It’s OK. You're right, I probably will need her help.  You can go to work, I’ll - I’ll be fine.”

 

“I’m not leaving until they get here, don’t worry,” his friend said, clapping his hand lightly on Peter’s back. 

 

The repetitive claxon of a police siren echoed in the distance as the ambulance came closer and the curious crowd started to slowly disperse. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
Peter smiled politely at the nurse. After writing down his vitals and tending to the cut on his forehead with antiseptic and a butterfly bandage, she left the room. 

 

He sighed, kicking his feet restlessly against the exam table where he was sitting, clenching his hands together tightly to try and stop their trembling.

 

_ What a stupid thing to do! Now you’ll have to pay for medical care. What will Aunt May say? She'll probably cry when she finds out and then get angry about it later and call him to tell him how he should learn to be more careful.  _

 

He groaned inwardly at the thought.

 

The door opened again and he looked up, expecting to see the doctor, or perhaps the nurse, back to poke and prod him again, or to ask him for the insurance card he didn't have.  

 

It was Michelle. 

 

“Michelle, hi.” He relaxed the restraining grip of his hands and placed them on his knees. 

 

She stood there gazing at him like she always did, but there behind her eyes was a look he hadn't seen before - it looked like worry?  As he peered closer, he noticed the dampness of the hair at her temples, and the sharp rise and fall of her chest, as if she had been running. Maybe she had, she didn't have an actual job per se -- he was pretty sure she was a trust fund baby, so there was no telling  _ where  _ she had come from in the city. 

 

Her eyes were luminous under the fluorescent lighting, and he turned his head away, trying to calm himself, but failing. Adrenaline was pumping through his system. 

 

She drew closer and softly touched his hand where it lay against his leg.  Peter turned his hand over and gripped onto hers as if it were a lifeline.

 

“Are you okay?” she asked in the softest voice he had ever heard. 

 

“I’m fine,” he tried to say, but the words came out choked and almost intelligible, and a tear dropped, landing atop their clasped hands. 

 

Michelle wrapped her other arm around his shoulders, pulling his head in to rest in the crook of her neck, as he shook and trembled. He realized he was probably making her shoulder a snotty, gross mess, but she didn't let go, as she might have if Goblin had slobbered all over her. 

 

After a few moments, he felt himself calming down, and released her hand from his grip.  She stepped back, and he watched as she casually sat in the chair across from him, staring back at him. 

 

“How did you get in here, anyways?” Peter asked, clearing his throat, while he wiped his face with a tissue pilfered from a nearby box.

 

“I told them I was your sister,” Michelle stated, relaxing as she slung one leg over the arm of the metal hospital chair. 

 

“My sister? But you’re…” Peter trailed off, unwilling to offend her with his instinct to blurt out that they clearly had different skin tones. 

 

“Turns out they don't care whether you're a full or half sibling, as long as you’re a relative,” she shrugged, picking at her chipped nail polish. 

 

“They didn't check you for I.D.?” Peter asked.

 

“Eh, there was another emergency and the lady at the front desk got distracted so I just slipped through the door after a doctor,” Michelle admitted nonchalantly.

 

Peter stared at her in amazement.  _ What wasn’t this girl afraid of? _

 

“So, where’s your sidekick, Neal?” she asked, still staring at him while she gnawed at a hangnail.

 

“Uh, I think you mean Ned,” Peter corrected her, trying to hide a smile behind a fake yawn. “He uh, he had to get to work. If he misses another shift he won't be able to catch up with this month’s rent, and with his roommate being who knows where - doing who knows what, he decided he couldn’t take the chance. That's why he called you.”

 

“Whatever.” Michelle straightened up from her slouch, peering out the small window in the door. “What the frick is taking that doctor so long? I have an article due tonight.” 

 

“An article, huh?” Peter asked, trying to distract her, despite his own desire to also get out of the hospital as soon as possible. 

 

And just like that, her face lit up more than he’d seen in years.  “Oh, yeah,” she nodded, “it's about the disfranchisement of the black voter in the southern United States during the early 20th century. I thought it could help educate people about the history of the voting procedure in this country, and the problems that we’re currently facing in this modern era of injustice.” 

 

_ That was a mouthful, _ he thought.  But something in her excited tone had caused his heart to start beating faster. Peter realized he really liked seeing her look  _ excited  _ about something, instead of the usual disinterested stare she put off most of the time.

 

“Oh, I--” Peter started, before the door opened once more to admit the doctor. Peter was prodded and poked once more, as the doctor wrote up a script for a prescription-strength pain medication, and advised him to check in if the pain got worse or if other symptoms developed.  He left the room, and within a minute, another nurse came in with his discharge paperwork, and he was sent on his way.

 

Peter winced as he attempted to put his arms back into his jacket.  Michelle stood up to help him, her movements methodical and almost impersonal. She grabbed his black backpack from his hand and slipped her arms beneath the straps, heading off towards the exit. 

 

Peter was kind of grateful that she had decided to ignore his unusual show of emotion, including the sniveling mess that he had made of her shirt. 

 

_ You've barely lived with this girl three months and you've already made a fool of yourself in front of her. Get it together, Parker! _

 

They walked out onto the street headed downtown and Michelle slowed her stride to match his slower one. Peter was grateful, but he forced himself to increase his pace, gritting his teeth against the pain and stiffness, mainly because he felt bad about making her come down to get him. She had probably spent a fortune on cab fare, to arrive so quickly to the hospital, after his arrival by ambulance.

 

The normal sounds of traffic, multiple voices speaking different languages, and the heat of the day, combined with his various aches and pains, resulted in a funk that clouded his mind, and he found it increasingly hard to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. After what seemed like forever, they reached the subway steps, and Peter was forced to allow Michelle to help him down the flight of stairs, then onward into the dank and overcrowded subway terminal. 

 

After waiting on the platform for a few minutes (that felt more like thirty), Peter sighed in relief, as he was finally able to rest.  It also helped that Michelle wasn't afraid of people and was able to use her sharp, bony elbows and even sharper tongue to acquire them a seat on the train. After shooting glares at some of the other passengers, Michelle placed herself in front of Peter like Happy Hogan protecting Tony Stark. Peter couldn't help but be in awe of her tenaciousness and easy willingness to help him. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Peter half sighed, half groaned as he collapsed onto the couch, grateful to finally be at home. 

 

He rolled his head along the couch cushion, watching as Michelle made her way into her bedroom, the click of the door closing the only sound in the apartment, with the exception of Goblin happily snoring away beside him, and the repetitive  _ tick tick tick  _ of the wall clock. 

 

To his surprise, Michelle returned quickly, her blue and white blanket folded across her arm, partly covering the paint splattered overalls and radioactive green tank she had changed into. 

 

Peter continued to stare shamelessly as she came around the edge of the couch and tossed the blanket in his direction.

 

“I’m not tucking you in this time,” she stated, grabbing the TV remote and handing it to him.

 

Despite himself, Peter felt his face starting to warm, imagining her standing over him and placing her blanket atop his sleeping form. 

 

He watched as Michelle walked into the kitchen, and heard the faucet running. He waited, curious, until he saw her emerge holding a daisy yellow plastic watering can, as she shimmied herself through the window and out to the fire escape. 

 

The faint sound of her humming under her breath filtered in through the window, and Peter could have sworn he heard her  _ cooing  _ to her plants before he drowned it out by turning on the TV and switching to a random channel.  _  It was weird to sit in silence and listen to her, wasn’t it?  _

 

The black and white movie made no sense to him at first, having tuned into it midway. Peter somehow didn't notice when Michelle came back inside and sat down next to him, with Goblin still snoring between them, or the fact that she sat quietly by his side -- not filling the void with nonsensical talking like Ned might have done -- staying even after he had fallen asleep after a while.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Blinking his eyes open, Peter squinted against the brightness of the TV screen. An infomercial for stuffed animals that turned into pillows was brightly flashing across the screen, but otherwise, the room had grown dark and silent.  His eyes slowly adjusted, and he turned toward the sound of Goblin’s breathing, to see Michelle curled up next to him, long limbs drawn up, chin tucked to her knees, one long-fingered hand resting slackly against Goblin’s brown spotted back. 

 

Peter smiled slightly at the sight before grunting in pain, as he tried to re-situate to get more comfortable. 

 

Michelle sat up almost instantly at the sound.  “Huh-- What is 1924, Alex?” she mumbled, still half asleep, drool glistening at the corner of her mouth. 

 

“Michelle?” Peter called, reaching out a hand towards her shoulder, his fingers almost grazing her bare skin before thinking twice, and pulling them back by his side.

 

Michelle yawned loudly, rubbing her eyes clear of sleep, and wiped the corner of her mouth on her bare arm. 

 

“Are you okay?” she asked, turning to look at him, a frown creasing the middle of her forehead. She grimaced at the dampness on her arm before wiping it across the fabric of the couch.

 

_ And she made fun of me for drinking out of the milk carton.  _

 

“Yeah,  _ um - _ yeah, I just, uh - was going to go to the bathroom, sorry,” Peter blushed, looking down at his wrinkled pants and dirt smeared sneakers.  “I’m just, uh - a little stiff, I guess.  From the  _ accident _ , I mean.”

 

Michelle scoffed, standing from the couch and reaching up toward the ceiling, her tank top rising just enough to showcase a strip of golden skin. 

 

Peter pretended not to notice. 

 

She reached for him, and Peter hissed between his teeth as she grabbed onto his bruised arm a little too tightly. Michelle whispered a quiet  _ sorry _ before helping him the few feet to the bathroom. 

 

To her credit, she waited outside while he completed his business. 

 

Peter could hear the sound of her fingernails tapping against the wood of the door frame. “I’m good, now,” he called out after washing his hands and drying them on the towel by the sink. 

 

He was careful to avoid the Venus Flytrap sitting on the windowsill. He knew they mostly ate flies and small insects, but who  _ knew  _ when Michelle’s plant might decide that his fingers looked good enough to munch on? He wasn’t gonna take the chance.

 

Michelle opened the door, catching him eyeing the plant with suspicion, but surprisingly, she kept quiet, and led him back to the living room without another word. A part of him was grateful for that, as he didn’t have the energy to get in an argument about all the weird flora and fauna she had scattered around the apartment.

 

She clicked on the floor lamp next to the sofa and the light illuminated the room, softly. Glancing over at him, she frowned once more, before heading back into the kitchen. He heard her clattering around for several minutes, drawers popping open and closed, the fridge and freezer opening, and then the loud jingle of the silverware drawer being rooted through. 

 

When Michelle finally emerged, she was balancing two bowls of ice cream, their spoons sticking out of the bowls like a soldier at attention, before settling down next to him again. He was almost too stunned to say anything, watching as she started flipping the TV channels intermittently.

 

Peter stared down into the bowl she’d handed him. “Mint chocolate chip?” he asked, finally. 

 

“Yeah,” Michelle answered, her voice garbled, full of ice cream. “Your favorite, right?” 

 

“Yeah, but-- how did  _ you  _ know?” Peter stared at Michelle as she continued to flip channels, one side of her face washed bluish white from the reflection from the screen. 

 

She shook her head dismissively.  “It's the only ice cream you ever buy at the corner store, and whenever you go out for ice cream and they don't have that flavor, your face falls like a little kid who didn't get what he wanted from Santa Claus.”  Her eyes remained glued to the screen, as if it was just a nonsensical fact.

 

“ _ Oh.”  _ Peter breathed, dipping his spoon into the bowl and relished the refreshing burst of mint on his tongue.  

 

He was trying to concentrate on the cold sensation and the taste on his tongue, but his mind was reeling. She’d been paying attention to his habits, watching what he did.  

 

Did she do that for everyone or just him?  

 

He remembered that Michelle couldn’t remember Ned’s name or _chose_ not to, even though she’d known Ned just as long as she’d known Peter. Did that mean she was paying more attention to him?  

 

He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

 

“Ice cream always makes everything better,” she commented, breaking him out of his thoughts.

 

“Yeah, it does,” he said with a warm smile. Even with the dull throb of pain in his limbs and shoulder, he felt lighter and happier than he had in days.   _ She had paid attention to him.  She knew what he liked.  _

 

After channel surfing for a little bit longer, Michelle finally settled on a Comedy Central rerun of SNL. Peter couldn't help but burst out laughing at a Family Feud skit, holding tight to his bruised ribs but unable to stop, his ice cream bowl lying forgotten next to him.

 

“They're just so stupid!” Michelle guffawed, grabbing her own sides as she laughed. Her laugh was surprisingly loud and effortless, and Peter couldn't help but be surprised again. It was the first time he’d ever seen her look so carefree and happy. She normally wore a critical frown like it was a permanent fixture on her face.

 

He continued to study her, and her laugh faded to a soft chuckle, before she turned to look at him straight on. Peter was caught; he had been too startled to react quickly enough to turn away, and now she knew he’d been staring at her. 

 

“What?” Michelle asked as she set her empty bowl on the coffee table. She tucked her feet underneath her, turning to face him.

 

His mind raced to find something to say.  “I uh-- I was kinda wondering… how  _ did  _ you get to the hospital so quickly after Ned called you?  I mean, I had barely just gotten there myself, before you arrived.” Peter threaded his fingers together against his knee, suddenly feeling shy.

 

Would she know what he had  _ really  _ been thinking about? He prayed she wouldn’t ask any more weird questions, like she had the day before. 

 

The sound of laughter from the television was a pleasant hum in the background, but Michelle was quiet, causing Peter to finally look up at her, his eyes wide and curious.

 

She was biting her lip, staring at him, as if he was an impossible equation that she was trying to figure out. 

 

Finally, she spoke, her normally laconic voice now soft - almost secretive - like she was afraid of talking too loudly in the dark.

 

“It’s kinda weird, actually. I took a Uber, but then the driver had some kind of existential crisis, I swear, he must have been  _ on  _ something,” she snorted, rolling her eyes, “and he had to drop me off suddenly, so I ended up running rest of the way to the hospital.” Michelle picked at a loose thread on the couch cushion, her long fingers twisting it round and round her finger. 

 

Peter reached over and put his hand over hers, stopping the anxious motion. “Hey--” he started.

 

Michelle lifted her head, looking into his eyes again, 

 

“I just want you to know, I appreciate you coming for me, like  _ really _ . Ned would have been an anxious mess the whole time. I love the guy, don't get me wrong, but Ned and hospitals do  _ not  _ mix.”  Peter knew he was rambling, but he couldn’t help himself. His body felt like it was burning, heat rising up through his neck and into his cheeks.  He went on, “Last time Ned went to the hospital, he fainted when the nurse pulled out a syringe shaped pen to write down his vitals... I swear, it’s true!” 

 

Michelle cracked a smile, shaking her head in amusement.  

 

“You needed my help, it's no biggie.” Michelle gently pulled her hand out from under his, picked up the remote and started flipping TV channels again as Peter relaxed back against the couch. 

 

He resisted the urge to fan himself. His face felt like it was on fire.  

 

Still, it wasn’t an altogether unpleasant feeling.

  
  


* * *

 

 

 

Peter needed a shower, and like an idiot, he had fallen asleep on the lumpy, old couch. Combined with the injuries from his accident, his body had practically atrophied in place, and he found it almost impossible to move. He tried straightening himself up, but groaned in pain when the soft cushion didn't give him enough leverage. He realized he was going to have to ask for help.

 

While he had enjoyed Michelle’s company throughout the night, and certainly appreciated having her there after the accident, he felt embarrassed having to ask for help again. Especially for something so stupid. Peter knew he wasn’t helpless, but he certainly felt like it.  

 

It was also then he realized he needed more than just help getting up off the couch.

 

_ Oh, crap.  _

 

He was going to have to swallow his pride.  

 

“Michelle!” he called out, his voice echoing against the brick walls, causing Goblin to lift his head from his paws and  _ woof  _ softly, in a surprising sign of vitality. 

 

“What’s up?” she asked, poking her head out of her bedroom door. Her hair was piled messily on top of her head, with her horned rimmed glasses perched precariously on the end of her nose. 

 

“I … need your help,” Peter admitted.

 

“Of  _ course  _ you do,” Michelle replied, walking towards him and propping her hip against the arm of the couch, a slight smile pulling at the corner of her lips. “What do you need?”

 

“Um.  OK.  So, I was thinking a hot shower would probably help, uh, with my stiff muscles, but I, uh -- don't think I can actually um -- remove,” Peter cleared his throat awkwardly, aware suddenly of his attraction to this girl, and how weird what he was about to say was, “my clothes,” he blurted out. 

 

Michelle stared at him, her brown eyes dark and serious, before suddenly shoving her hands into her back pockets. 

 

“ _ What? _ ” she asked, her voice soft, yet demanding. “You need help getting _ undressed? _ ”

 

“Well, you know uh-- just with like my shirt and stuff,” Peter clarified, stumbling over his words. “The doctor said, um, my ribs are bruised and I'm not sure if I’ll be able to get it off by myself, is all. I promise you'll only have to do the bare minimum.”

 

Michelle scoffed at Peter's unintentional pun and the blush that had crept up, but she agreed with a nod.  It took her a second before she realized she’d have to help him remove his pants as well.

 

Michelle wasn't exactly  _ shy _ .  The way she saw it, she had what amounted to a mostly clinical interest in the male form, at least that she was aware of. She figured she should be able to take care of this with just a minimal amount of embarrassment - mostly on Peter’s part, she was sure. After all, she was just helping a friend out, right?

 

“Um, I also kinda need help getting off the couch,” Peter said.

 

“Do you need me to help you wipe, too?” she asked sarcastically, glad to be broken from her prior train of thought.  

 

“Let’s hit that road when we come to it,” Peter responded wryly.

 

She hoped he was kidding about that.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Suddenly every movement and small touch seemed painfully intimate.

 

The warmth of her arm around his waist, the brush of her hair against his cheek, the somewhat spicy, citrus scent of her was driving Peter’s blood pressure through the roof. He could feel a blush starting to rise up in him with the realization that she would soon see him mostly naked.

 

_ You just have to get through these next few minutes, Peter.  _

 

_ God, why did you have to be so stupid and get hit by a car in the first place? Then you would be able to take a shower on your own and ignore these stupid feelings for your roommate, which you shouldn’t even have in the first place.  _

 

“Are you okay?” Michelle asked as they awkwardly made their way through the bathroom door.

 

“O-of course I’m okay. Uh, why do you ask?” Peter chuckled, uncomfortably aware that they had hardly ever stood this close to each other. 

 

“Well, I don’t know - maybe because - you were _ hit by a car  _ yesterday, you went flying through the air, were knocked unconscious for who knows how long, and now you need my help just to make it into the bathroom?” Michelle stated, matter-of-factly. 

 

“Oh, well there is that.” Peter shrugged his shoulders, self consciously. He stared over Michelle’s shoulder, cringing at the sight of his bruised face and patchy facial hair in the mirror.

 

“So... you want to get this over with?” Michelle glanced up at the ceiling, biting her lip. Peter couldn't tell if she was trying not to laugh or if she was just as nervous as he was. 

 

It was almost as if they were entering into a new phase of their relationship without any of the usual precursors -- flirting, dating,  _ kissing _ .

 

“Um, yeah, of course,” Peter replied, clearing his throat nervously and trying not to make eye contact.  _ God, this was nerve-wracking. _ “Shirt first, I guess.”

 

Michelle stepped closer, shyly, which was weird, because she always did everything with such purpose and drive. Her change in mood was making him even more nervous, his neck hairs prickling up in anticipation. Peter sucked in a breath at the first touch of her fingers. 

 

The warmth of her touch could be felt even through the thickness of his shirt. She grasped the bottom of it hesitantly, and began to pull upward. Everything seemed to be going fine until she got the shirt up to his shoulders and Peter found it almost impossible to lift his right arm above his waist. 

 

“Um, OK, well, maybe if you bent over,” Michelle suggested, biting her thumb as if considering the most likely options to complete their objective, her clinical brain clearly at work. 

 

“I don't know if I can do that either,” Peter admitted, but he gave it a shot. He groaned loudly at the painful pressure on his ribs, but when Michelle stopped tugging after hearing his discomfort, he encouraged her to keep going. 

 

_ Just rip it off like a band-aid _ , Peter thought,  _ and do it quickly.  _

 

After what seemed like forever, he was free of his shirt, but not before getting it stuck on his head, forcing Michelle to do some forceful yanking to pull it free of his ears.

 

_ That's the last time I wear that shirt _ , Peter thought. He’d never be able to wear it again without cringing at the memory of this moment.

 

Michelle sucked in a breath, the sound of her inhale and shared breathing the only sound in the room. Peter jerked his head up to stare at her, his eyes wide with surprise.

 

“ _ Oh _ , Peter,” she whispered, raising her hand to brush her fingers softly against the mottled purple bruises on his swollen arm and trail down his more deeply bruised side.

 

Peter's eyelids fluttered at the unexpected gentleness of her touch, and then it was his turn to inhale in surprise. 

 

He had always known he was  _ loved _ . 

 

Even after his parents had died, his Aunt May had taken care of him -- hugged him, cuddled him, kissed him -- but since he had moved out, he hadn't been very close to anyone. Sure, he’d dated a couple girls in high school, briefly, but it had never progressed past awkward hand-holding and fumbled kisses on the doorstep. 

 

He was definitely fairly new to romantic intimacy and he felt like kind of a fool for it. 

 

Dating just hadn't been on his mind, up until recently.

 

He and Michelle were still getting used to sharing an apartment, and yet, he’d felt like they had an instant connection upon her arrival, and he felt it getting stronger, day after day.

 

Michelle yanked her hand backwards, as if she suddenly realized what she had been doing and regretted it. 

 

Peter felt an immediate rush of disappointment, but did his best to hide it well.  _ This wonderful, intelligent and confusing woman wouldn't be interested in someone like him, after all.  Who was he kidding? _

 

“Sorry.” Michelle apologized, suddenly embarrassed, staring down at her scuffed up white Chucks. “I, um, didn't mean to cross a line… I was just surprised, that's all.”

 

“No, uh, it's okay. Actually, you know - I think I can take it from here.” Peter said, his voice cracking slightly.  He cursed inwardly at his response.  He sat down on the toilet and bent over to untie his shoes -- silently praying that she wouldn't notice his pained grimace.

 

“Are you sure?” she asked.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I think I can handle it,” he said, nodding quickly, as if to reassure her.  “I mean - I appreciate your help, but, uh - yeah, I - I think I mostly just needed help with my shirt.”

 

Michelle nodded thoughtfully before walking to the door and closing it behind her with a quiet click. 

 

Peter eased himself back against the tank, breath rasping harshly in his chest and sweat beading up on his forehead. 

 

_ Damn it. _

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
  


Somehow he’d managed to finish undressing himself and made it through a scalding (and frankly, quite enjoyable) shower without incident.  Peter now stood at the sink, attempting to brush his teeth with his non-dominant hand, his other arm still too sore to do anything with. He glanced at the mirror, noticing the empty toilet lid where he would usually leave his clean set of clothes. 

 

_ Shit. _

 

Spitting toothpaste foam violently into the sink and wiping his mouth roughly on the corner of his towel he considered his options:

 

  1. _~~_Wear a towel out into the hallway and make a quick getaway to your room._~~ _Not gonna happen, you couldn't even get yourself undressed.  And how are you gonna put a towel around you with one hand?__
  2. _Ask Michelle to help you again and just ignore the fact that she would have to rummage through your underwear drawer to bring your boxers to you.  
_
  3. ~~_Call Ned and have him distract Michelle so that you can get to your bedroom without being seen._~~ _Let's face it, even if Ned wasn't at work, if you called him, he would just laugh, the bastard._
  4. _Stay in the bathroom until you die of starvation or embarrassment, whichever comes first._



 

 

Peter slammed his toothbrush back onto the counter top, and yelped, as his hand caught the edge of the cactus-like plant sitting there. 

 

“What the - _ why? _ ” Peter yelled.  He clenched his palm against his side, cursing the existence of spiky plants and people who thought they were a good thing to keep in a bathroom.  Crossing to the door, Peter opened it, hollering, “Michelle!  Why is this plant here and  _ what  _ did it do to me?  My hand stings like a mother!” 

 

After a few agonizing minutes, Michelle's head finally popped through the door. Her jaw working at the sight of Peter, half naked and halfway to furious. “Did you call for me?” she asked, nonchalantly.

 

“ _ What _ is this plant doing here?” Peter asked. 

 

“Oh, that's my  _ Euphorbia milii _ ,” Michelle replied, her back propped against the doorjamb. 

 

Goblin came trotting up at that moment and settled himself onto the gray bath mat. His big brown eyes watched them, tracking back and forth as their voices carried on over his head. 

 

“In English, please,” Peter ground out, embarrassment and aggravation warring in his tone. He was uncomfortably aware that he was standing in front of Michelle, clutching a towel to cover his very naked lower half in a desperate bid to maintain his sense of propriety, all the while his palm was throbbing like it had been stung by a half dozen bees. He shook it rapidly, as if that was going to help it stop hurting.

 

“It's called the Crown of Thorns,” Michelle explained, exasperatedly, as if Peter should have known the Latin names for the random botanical items that thrived in his bathroom. 

 

_ Who does she think she is, Pamela Isley?  _

 

“Why is my hand itching, then?” Peter frowned at Michelle and the casual way she was treating the situation.

 

“Oh,  _ no _ .  You  _ touched _ it?” Michelle suddenly crossed the room, shoving the offending hand under the faucet while she slathered it in lemon-scented hand soap, and scrubbed the skin roughly.  “You should have said that to  _ begin with _ , idiot!” After a couple minutes of vigorous cleansing, she seemed satisfied, and handed him the hand towel.

 

Peter stared at her dumbly as she started to head back out the door.

 

“Idiot,  _ me _ ?” he demanded. “Don't you think it would have been wise to tell me you were keeping poisonous plants in our bathroom?  Especially since it was right next to my toothbrush, which, you know, I happen to put in my  _ mouth? _  I mean, I coulda died, or something, you know?”

 

Michelle turned around to face him, one hand braced against the door frame. Suddenly she started laughing, pressing her forehead against her arm, and slapping her palm against her thigh. 

 

“What?” Peter asked.  Her eyes flicked downward, and he glanced down as well, realizing suddenly how ridiculous he must have looked, one hand clutching the towel that was protecting the little scrap of dignity he had left, his other hand bright red and throbbing, as he waved it angrily in her direction. Frowning, he tucked his injured hand behind his back.

 

Michelle finally stopped laughing, swiping tears from her face. “Where are your  _ clothes _ , dude?”

 

“Um. I forgot them. I mean, I was just about to ask you to bring me some, but then I touched your devil plant and then I forgot,  _ again.”  _

 

_ “Jeez,  _ don’t be such a baby about it. The plant isn’t  _ that  _ poisonous. You wouldn’t have died. You just would have gotten a bad rash if I hadn’t washed it off.” 

 

“Oh, well,  _ that’s  _ good to know,” Peter quipped.  

 

“I’ll get you some clothes,” she said, shaking her head in amusement, Goblin tailing behind her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
  


“So then Michelle had to help me get undressed, because when I woke up the day after the accident - I couldn’t even lift my right arm!” 

 

Peter was drying off the ceramic coffee cups that were resting in the drain rack as he chatted with his co-worker and best friend Ned about his last few days. Ned stood across from him, wiping down the counters perfunctorily. Their day manager was a stickler for cleanliness and wouldn’t hear any complaints -- even the most reasonable ones -- that the closing shift, the night before, should or would have handled already.

 

Keeping Ned somewhat distracted with conversation was his measly attempt at keeping them both out of trouble, since Peter knew Ned couldn’t afford to lose his job.

 

Ned’s jaw dropped, staring at Peter with his eyes bugged out.  “Seriously?  _ Dude _ , I bet she is  _ freaky  _ in bed!” Ned smirked in his direction. “Who would have thought that little Peter Parker would be into  _ that sauce _ ?”

 

“Ned, come  _ on _ , don't talk about Michelle like that,” Peter warned. Ned might be his best friend, but sometimes he had no brain-to-mouth filter and Peter didn't care for his  _ dudebro _ talk. “Anyway, nothing happened. I’m sure she thinks I'm some kinda weirdo for gaping at her all the time, too.” 

 

“You don’t know, maybe she  _ likes  _ that. She’s a weird chick.” Ned peered around the corner of the back room to see what their manager was up to and seeing no sign of him, whipped his phone from his pocket and started texting like mad. 

 

Peter decided to let Ned’s last comment go, seeing how it was mostly true. Michelle  _ was _ strange, but she was also kind, and sorta sweet, and her laugh was so rambunctious and carefree compared to her usual stoicism that it always put a smile on Peter's face.  _ Well, whatever _ , he thought. Even if Michelle  _ did  _ think he was a weirdo, she didn’t seem to mind it.

 

Peter stared out the front doors. The morning was still dark; it was early, before dawn, but the streetlights highlighted the cracked sidewalk and the yellow cabs as they drove by; their passengers worn out partygoers and businessmen who wanted to get to the office early. 

 

If Peter had it his way, he wouldn’t be up before 11 a.m., but his job didn’t allow that. Good thing there was an unlimited amount of coffee at his fingertips. Employees weren't  _ technically  _ allowed to use the company's stores of beans from Guatemala, Colombia, and Ethiopia, but that didn't mean certain employees didn't sneak some off to the break room and start a pot.  What good was it working in a coffee shop if you couldn’t drink the coffee?

 

“Peter! How many times do I have to tell you to stop daydreaming and get back to work? Ned, get off that phone right now before I confiscate it!” Their manager, Mr. Harrington, appeared from what seemed like thin air, his booming voice echoing through the empty coffee shop as he continued on: “Peter, it's 5 a.m. on the dot, go ahead and open up! Mr. Leeds, tuck that shirt in please. We don't accept sloppiness here, no matter  _ what  _ time of the day it is.”

 

Ned rolled his eyes but did as he was asked, while Peter walked to the front door and unlocked it, flipping the closed sign to open.   _ Another day, another dollar.  _

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Shit,” Peter cursed a few hours later. There was no end in sight. The line was out the door and he had forgotten to bring his painkillers with him. His ribs were throbbing relentlessly while he hunched over behind the old and finicky espresso machine, which was acting up, spurting steam in all directions.

 

“Mr. Parker,  _ what  _ is the meaning of this?” Mr. Harrington barked, coming to stand uncomfortably close to where Peter was trying to deal with the unexpected machine malfunction.

 

“Uh, I'm sorry, Mr. Harrington, it was working fine a few minutes ago - it just started doing this,” Peter explained, smiling apologetically at the customers standing on the other side of the counter. Two of them were girls near his own age, and they smiled back at him coquettishly, flipping their long hair over their shoulders and popping their gum simultaneously. He thought they might be sisters, twins maybe, but it was hard to tell. Peter bent over again, his ears burning, as the sound of Mr. Harrington’s continual haranguing faded into the background. 

 

A few minutes later, the machine stopped spewing near-volcanic mist and cooperated enough that Peter could hand off a latte to an out-of-temper mother trying to wrangle a fractious two year-old. He smiled at the lady, attempting an apology, but the woman was having none of it and stormed out, with her screaming child following behind.  

 

Peter blew out a breath in relief, the noise level of the shop having leveled out with the child’s last shriek as the door closed behind them, the bell on the door jingling violently. Peter wiped his hands on his black apron as he got back to work, praying, in vain, that his shift would end as soon as possible.

 

“Here you go,” Peter said, as he slid two iced coffees across the counter. “One caramel for -- Jessica, and a mocha for uh, Teresa.” 

 

“It's  _ Tressa,  _ actually, but you can call me Teresa if you want,” one of the girls said, propping her elbows up on the counter and fiddling with her straw, her dark brown eyes fixed on him as she bit her lip suggestively.

 

“Uh,” Peter mumbled, shooting an anxious glance towards the line that was still six people deep. “Sorry - I really should get back to work. More orders to fill and all that.”

 

“He can talk to us, right, Jessica? We  _ are _ paying customers. You wouldn't want a bad review on Yelp, would you,  _ Peter _ ?” Tressa stated, a cunning look in her eyes. 

 

Peter didn't know what this girl’s problem was, but he suddenly wished that he was anywhere else: getting hit by a car again, lost on a ten mile hike in the Catskills with no water, or in his Sex Ed class in sophomore year with Liz Allan sitting across from him --  _ anywhere  _ would be preferable to here, he thought darkly. 

 

Someone abruptly cleared their throat and Peter’s head jerked up, a tiny smile suddenly crossing his face at the sight of Michelle standing there in between the two girls. Michelle eyed the two girls, assessing, before zeroing in on the one pestering Peter. Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

 

“Excuse me.” She pushed her way in front of the one called Tressa, ignoring the girl’s huff of annoyance, and pulled Peter’s medication out of her bag. “You left this at  _ home _ , I thought you might need them.” Michelle raised her eyebrows at him, cutting her gaze toward the two girls as if to say, “What's up with them?” 

 

Peter shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly before reaching out to take the prescription bottle from her hand, making a point to brush his hand across the back of hers as he did. He was shocked at the thrill he felt at the softness of her skin against his.

 

“Yo, Peter, a little  _ help  _ here would be nice,” Ned grumbled, before catching sight of Michelle, Peter’s hand still on hers, standing in front of two very annoyed customers. Ned sent a little wave her way before turning back to Peter with a knowing smirk. “You’d better hurry up, before Mr. Harrington boots  _ both  _ our asses.”

 

“Hey, Ned.” Michelle gave him a friendly wave before returning her gaze to Peter’s. “I guess I’ll see you later, then? I don't want you to get fired over me.  _ We _ need the income,” Michelle added, suggesting their fake relationship status without really saying anything. 

 

She winked at him, her dark amber eyes glinting in amusement before sauntering away, her messy curls swinging against her back. Peter gaped after her, completely forgetting about the line of customers for a moment.

 

“Like I told you,  _ freaky _ ,” Ned grinned, waggling his eyebrows at Peter, before escaping back to his post. 

 

Peter shook his head as he grabbed a new cup and started making the next order, the pair of annoying sisters already out of his mind.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Come on, you guys!” Ned groaned. “Will  _ one  _ of you please just be the healer so we can get  _ on  _ with this? I don't have all day!  Well, uh-- I mean,  _ technically  _ I do, since it's my day off, but--” 

 

Ned chuckled to himself, but it was lost in the midst of the battle Michelle and Peter were involved in. 

 

Michelle was gesturing wildly, holding the instruction book in her hand, while Peter was shoving his character sheet into her face, pointing at the ability scores he had already filled in.

 

“I obviously have the stats to be the rogue, so you  _ have  _ to take the healer slot,” Peter was saying.

 

“You only  _ wish  _ \-- you have no battle strategy -- you lose every time!” Michelle countered.  “Do you think I forgot about how many times I handed your ass to you during lunch in high school?”

 

Peter blushed suddenly, surprised that she would have remembered that. True, he had dug the game out of his closet secretly hoping to spark some nostalgia from high school, but he hadn’t honestly expected that she’d  _ remember it _ .  

 

“Will you  _ please _ stop bickering?” Ned moaned, interrupting them. “Please? Come on, I’m the Dungeon Master. You  _ have _ to listen to me.”

 

Goblin suddenly started barking, hopping down from his spot on the couch to crouch next to Ned. That, added with the ongoing bickering between Peter and Michelle, was making Ned’s head pound. 

 

“Seriously, if you two don't get your act together, I’m leaving! That's right, I said it…” Ned trailed off suddenly. “Uh, guys?” 

 

“What?” Peter and Michelle turned toward him simultaneously, foreheads furrowed in a eerily similar manner.

 

“Is -- that a pigeon?” Ned asked, pointing towards the kitchen and the pigeon strutting around on the linoleum. Goblin’s attention was now directed toward the kitchen, and his hair stood up as he started barking even louder than before.

“Not again,” Michelle sighed, pushing up from the table with a groan, “I’ll go get the flyswatter.” 

 

“Goblin, hush.” Peter shushed the dog, who thankfully stopped barking, and settled back on the couch to sleep again.

 

Michelle returned quickly, trying to shoo the pigeon using the flyswatter and various flapping hand motions. That seemed to be working, until the pigeon decided to fly right at her, swooping down towards her face.

 

“Peter!” she shrieked, ditching the fly-swatter and ducking behind him, just as the pigeon attempted to dive bomb her again. 

 

Peter rolled his eyes at Ned, extracted Michelle’s hands from around his waist, and calmly shooed the pigeon out the open window, firmly shutting it behind the recalcitrant bird. 

 

Michelle just stared at him as Peter took his seat back on the couch, next to Goblin. Goblin grunted as he sat down, but didn’t wake up.  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her mouth open and close again, but didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of looking her way.  

 

“All right,  _ Dungeon Master,  _ what is our adventure to be?” Peter asked, rubbing his hands together.

 

“Hold up, we still didn't decide who was going to be healer and who was going to be the rogue,” Michelle complained. She wiped her forehead with her arm, and her curly bangs scattered in all directions. It was a very muggy day, and their old window A/C unit couldn’t keep up with the heat. Peter tried not to watch as she flapped the front of her tank top to cool herself down. He saw Ned’s eyes go wide and then look away.

 

“Of course we did,” Peter said, forcing himself not to get distracted. ”I took care of the pigeon, so I get to be the rogue.”

 

Michelle groaned, but accepted defeat as she shoved her hand into the bowl of cheese puffs. Munching loudly, she stood up and sat on the couch next to Peter, and then rested her head on his shoulder.

 

Peter froze, staring wide-eyed at Ned. 

 

“What do I do?” he mouthed in Ned’s direction. 

 

Ned shook his head in bewilderment, jerking his head down to fumble with the rulebook when Michelle's gaze rested on him.

 

She continued to casually rest against Peter like it was no big deal and they had done this a million times before, when in fact, they had  _ never  _ sat this close -- well, except for that one time when they were lab partners, back in  _ Introduction to Physics  _ class, during junior year.  

 

Not that he had been keeping track, or anything.

 

Peter cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly in his seat, and Michelle sighed, before scooting over slightly and grabbing a character sheet to fill out.

  
  


 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“I’m starving. I'm gonna head over to the deli. You want anything?” Michelle asked, standing and stretching after the many hours of sitting hunched over, playing the game.

 

“Uh, just get me the turkey club, and don't forget my chips.” Peter replied, watching her, his chin resting on the corner of his knee. 

 

“Yeah,  _ yeah _ , I’ll get your precious chips,” Michelle rolled her eyes in mock annoyance, but her expression quickly bloomed into a fond grin, forgetting that Ned was just a few feet away and could also see her.

 

“Oh,” she said, looking over in his direction, “uh-- Ned, you want something, too? I’m buying.” Michelle shoved her hands in her pockets, suddenly focusing all her attention on the wall behind Ned’s head. 

 

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks, though!” Ned winked cheekily at her, while Peter's focused his full attention on putting the living room back to rights. Michelle frowned at Ned menacingly, but when he failed to look contrite, she abruptly left the room. 

 

“What was  _ that  _ about?” Peter asked, catching the look that Michelle had shot Ned’s way.

 

Ned shrugged, offering zero explanation. 

 

Michelle came back out of her bedroom, wearing her favorite wool socks with sandals, and Ned gave her a strange look as she headed toward the door. She made a face at him in response, but Peter wasn’t sure if she really knew why Ned was looking at her like that. She had an odd fashion sense, but Peter knew she dressed more for function than appearance. 

 

“Oh, hey, Michelle?” Peter called out. 

 

“Hmm?” she raised her eyebrows, as she retrieved her tote bag from the hook by the door.

 

“Can you say hi to Murphy for me?” 

 

“You're such a  _ loser _ , you know that, right?” Michelle laughed as she left, shutting the door with an audible thump.

 

_ “Pfft.   _ Whatever,” Peter huffed. 

 

“Does she always do that?” Ned asked.

 

“Do what? Call me a loser? Not as much as she used to,” Peter shrugged.

 

“No, I mean, wear socks with sandals? Such a _ faux pas _ ,” Ned mocked in a fake hoity-toity accent like a Hamptons socialite.

 

Peter snorted. “Yes. Actually, her feet are always freezing, I guess, even in the summer. She wears wool socks year-round.”

 

“ _ Really _ ? She should get that checked out!” 

 

Peter shook his head, shoving Ned’s shoulder with one hand, “Dude, just shut up!” 

 

“What?” Ned laughed, brushing cookie crumbs off his shirt. “She could have a medical condition!” 

 

Peter flicked on the TV and logged into his Netflix account, ignoring Ned's inane comments. 

 

“ _ So... _ do you like her now, or what?” Ned taunted, pulling the  _ destroy the patriarchy, not the planet _ -embroidered pillow from behind his back, and tossing it on the floor. Goblin immediately hopped off the couch and flopped his fat, wrinkled bottom on it. 

 

_ Michelle was not going to like that,  _ Peter thought.  But he had bigger problems to address at the moment.

 

“What, no?  _ Dude,  _ why would you even ask that?” He jumped up and headed into the kitchen, grabbing Goblin’s dog food and filling his bowl.

 

Ned vacated the couch and followed Peter into the kitchen.

 

“Come on, Peter, I think she really likes you,” Ned declared, and leaned up against the counter, blocking Peter's attempts to get to the fridge. 

 

“Ned, please, can we  _ not  _ talk about this? Michelle will be back any minute, and I’ve had enough of your conspiracy theories to last a lifetime.” Peter attempted to reach around Ned to get to the fridge again, but Ned stepped in front of him, placing his body fully against the fridge door.

 

“ _ Dude _ , this isn't a conspiracy, although how anyone could be interested in your nerdy ass is a mystery.”

 

Peter rolled his eyes as Ned blocked him once more.

 

“I’m your best friend, right?” Ned asked, he waited a beat before insisting, “ _ Right? _ ”

 

“Of  _ course  _ you're my best friend, Ned. You know that,” Peter admitted, sighing and bracing his back against the butcher block across from the sink.

 

“Then trust me and know that as your best friend, I would never lie to you. Well, except for that one time when we were kids, and I broke your Captain America figurine and blamed it on his awesome dive from the kitchen sink.”

 

Peter blinked, “ _ You _ broke my Captain America figurine?  _ Dude _ .” 

 

Peter paused.

 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Peter grabbed a hold of Ned’s shoulders, “Did you just say Michelle likes me?” 

 

“Dude, I think she  _ likes you _ ,  _ likes you _ ,” Ned grinned, like he couldn't believe what he was saying. “But seriously, you should see the way she looks at you when you aren't paying attention. Girl, has a serious case of the MCM’s, except that  _ her  _ crush has lasted for years, ever since high school.”

 

“Are you seriously telling me that my new roommate, Michelle Jones,  _ the _ Michelle Jones, the same girl who always gave me the finger in school, and called me a loser every chance she got, has had a  _ crush  _ on me since high school? For real?” 

 

Peter felt like the human equivalent of  _ mind-blown.  _

 

Keys jingled in the lock and the front door creaked open suddenly. Ned clammed up _ ,  _ miming locking up his mouth and throwing away the key, before gingerly easing around Peter and heading back to the living area to watch _ The Get Down _ . 

 

Michelle had come into the kitchen just as Ned retreated, and she shot a questioning look in Peter’s direction. She set the plastic bag of food and her tote bag onto the butcher block before walking around to step in front of Peter, much in the way Ned had a moment ago.

 

Peter felt like he didn't know whether up was down or down was up.  _ Maybe this was his Chicken Little moment.  _

 

_ The sky is falling! The sky is falling! _

 

_ Or maybe it had actually fallen, right onto his head and that's why he had just imagined that conversation with Ned in his kitchen. _

 

“Peter, is everything okay?” Michelle peered at him, confusion clearly imprinted on her face.  “You’re ...staring at the fridge.”

 

Peter did nothing but blink in response, continuing to stare at the fridge and its various random photographs and magnets, his face blank. Michelle reached out to touch his forehead as if to check his temperature, but Peter did nothing but press his lips together.

 

“Ned,” she called out, leaning out of the doorway to the kitchen, “what's wrong with Peter?” 

 

_ “Hmm,  _ oh,” Ned shrugged, turning back to the tv, “he just found out about his Captain America figurine. I broke it when we were kids and I think he might be in shock.”

 

_ Thanks for making me look like a idiot, Ned,  _ Peter thought.

 

“Really?” she asked, glancing back at Peter, who still had not moved. “I thought maybe he was suffering from some residual side-effects from the accident, or something.” She looked over at him again.  “Peter?” 

 

Peter shook himself out of his stupor and walked over to stand next to Michelle, their hands accidentally brushing as he reached for the paper-wrapped sandwich nestled in the plastic bag.

 

“Sorry,” she snatched her hand back as if she had been burned, her eyes meeting Ned’s from the other room, glaring when she caught sight of his smug look. 

 

“No, that was my fault,” Peter mumbled.  “I… uh, I’m OK, yeah. Sorry. I was just lost in thought for a second there. Um, thinking about good ‘ol Cap, you know?”

 

Peter turned to look back at Ned to shoot him a dirty look - not for his lost Captain America, but for putting Peter into this awkward position to begin with.  _ What a jerk. _ Ned responded by waggling his tongue and giving Peter a thumbs-up.  

 

“Well, I’m glad you’re okay,” she said, and followed him out to the couch where she shooed Goblin to Ned’s side of the couch, and plopped herself in the middle, between the two boys. Once Peter had settled in, she leaned up against him, grabbing a chip out of his bag.

 

Peter was pleasantly surprised with her cuddling, and spent the next few moments trying to ignore the butterflies that had taken residence in his stomach, not to mention the smug grins Ned kept shooting him over the top of Michelle’s head.  _ If he gives me another thumbs-up, I’m gonna punch him _ .

 

Peter finally managed to finish his sandwich, and as he settled in to enjoy the show, Michelle stretched out on the couch, resting her head on Peter’s lap, while and unashamedly placing her feet on Ned’s lap. 

 

Pretending not to hear Ned’s complaints: “I don't want to be apart of whatever freakish thing you have going on in the bedroom, Michelle, _ hard pass,”  _ she cracked open  _ Crossing Waters _ by Sylvia Plath and happily started reading.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
  


Peter approached the corner table at the coffee shop, a mug of hot chamomile tea in his hand. Sitting down opposite the table’s only occupant, he slid the cup across the table. 

 

The scrape of the ceramic brought Michelle's head up and she narrowed her eyes over the rim of her glasses like Squints Palledorous. Peter had to hold in a laugh at the sight of her confused face, before she buried herself back in her laptop.

 

“Are you  _ still  _ working on that article? Didn't you come in at seven this morning?” Peter wondered aloud, clearly not expecting an answer from the deeply engrossed Michelle. Her head shot up once more.

 

This time Peter did laugh, because if she had looked any more bewildered, she would have had question marks floating around her head like a cartoon character.

 

“Peter? What are you doing here?” Michelle looked around the immediate area, fumbling with her books, notebooks and various pieces of candy bar wrapper. 

 

“I work here,  _ remember _ ?” Peter reached behind her ear and presented her pencil to her, “Looking for this?”

 

“Hmm, oh? Right. Thanks.” Michelle continued to scribble in her notebook next to her, completely ignoring Peter and the cup of tea he was offering her. She was so caught up in her editorial duties, that she barely noticed Peter, or the fact that she hadn't had anything to eat except a few candy bars over the last day and a half.

 

Not that he’d been keeping track, or anything.

 

“Do you want to get out of here?” Peter asked, watching the various expressions crossing her face as she focused on whatever it was she was writing. 

 

“Wha-- I can’t. I have to finish this right now,” Michelle mumbled, biting on the end of her pencil’s eraser. 

 

Glancing up at him, she stared for a minute, “Don't you have work to do?” 

 

She turned toward the counter, finally noticing the silence of the empty shop. “ _ Oh _ .”

 

“ _ Yeah _ , so, do you want to get something for dinner? If you don't eat a vegetable soon, I’m afraid it’ll be too late for you.” 

 

Peter laughed at his own joke.  _ You're such a cheesy asshole, Parker. _

 

“Vegetables, uh huh?” Michelle continued to jot down notes, clearly not invested in the conversation or in a meal featuring any of the five major food groups.

 

“OK, I guess I’ll have to go about this a different way.” Peter got up, unzipped Michelle's book bag and started placing the textbooks and notebooks inside, one by one, ignoring Michelle's gripes of protest.

 

Returning to the kitchen, he grabbed a styrofoam cup, and continuing to ignore Michelle's complaints about styrofoam and its non-recyclability, he poured the still-warm herbal tea inside. Placing the cup in her hand, he threw her bag over his shoulder, and made his way to the door after tossing her abandoned candy wrappers in the trash.

 

“Bye, Ned!” Peter yelled out, flashing his buddy a peace sign over his shoulder.

 

“Hey, Peter!” Ned called.

 

“Yeah?” Peter turned around, walking backwards and disregarding Michelle's quip that he was going to need another trip to the hospital if he didn't stop being an idiot.

 

“Don't do anything I wouldn't do!” Ned responded.  

 

“That doesn't leave much out!” Peter laughed.

 

Michelle followed Peter reluctantly out the door, still complaining about styrofoam, how it clogged up local landfills and oceans, and how he shouldn't interrupt her genius at work. Her complaining wasn’t enough to dampen his spirits, though. He’d gotten her to go out to dinner with him!

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

They walked along the sidewalk, passing a number of trendy restaurants, darkened clothing stores and bustling nightclubs with their velvet roped lines of future partiers.

 

Peter kept a wary eye out for muggers as they strolled along, his hand hovering protectively near Michelle's back. 

 

“Do you like Thai food?” Peter asked, lifting his head to stare up at the setting sun as lit up the sky with cotton candy hues.  “Beautiful,” he whispered, in awe, distracted by the view.

 

“Hmm?” Michelle hummed, in question. 

 

“The sky. Isn't it beautiful?” 

 

Michelle gazed up at the pastel washed sky. “It really is.” 

 

“Oh, here you go,” Peter handed her bookbag over and Michelle accepted it, grateful to have the familiar heaviness on her shoulders, grounding her.  

 

“Mmm, this is good. You definitely didn't make this,” Michelle noted, after taking a sip of tea.

 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Peter teased, knocking his shoulder into hers.  “Although, I did tell Ned to add a dash of cinnamon, I uh-- I know that's how you like it.” Peter bit his lip, sneaking a look at her face out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Hmm, well played, but that doesn't make up for the fact that you’re a shitty barista.” Catching sight of his outraged face, Michelle tossed her empty cup at him and started to run, but despite her slightly longer legs, Peter caught up with her. His arms went around her waist, and he dragged her back a few steps, Michelle gasping from exertion and laughter. 

 

“Take it back! Right now, or I leave that styrofoam cup right where it landed, and you know it won't biodegrade for five hundred years, maybe longer,” Peter threatened, knowing that Michelle would give in, if only for her love of the planet.

 

Michelle groaned. “Ugh,  _ fine _ , you're  _ not  _ a terrible barista, you're actually pretty good. It's your tea that sucks, that's all,” Michelle had to get another dig in, no matter how desperately she wanted to recycle the damn styrofoam cup. 

 

Peter released her and Michelle huffed, shifting her backpack on her shoulders before going back to pick the styrofoam cup up off the sidewalk, and stowing it in her bag, to be tossed in the appropriate receptacle later.

 

“You didn't answer my question earlier.” Peter shoved his hands in his front pockets, waiting for Michelle to catch up before continuing down the familiar street.

 

“What’s that?” 

 

“Yeah. Thai food, yay or nay?” 

 

Michelle tapped her chin, “I don't know. I don't think I’ve ever had any.”

 

“Never?” Peter couldn't believe his ears.

 

“Nope.” Michelle popped the “p” on the end and a brief flash of a dimple winked at him from one cheek. 

 

Peter had to make himself stop staring and focus on putting one foot in front of the other until they reached the restaurant.

 

“ _ All You Need Is Larb _ ? What the hell!” Michelle stared as they came to a stop in front of the restaurant, gesturing to the embossed glass window with her thumb. “Are they for real?” 

 

“Inexplicably.” Peter laughed at Michelle's stank-face. 

 

“Nice, fifty-cent word there Einstein.” 

 

Peter held the door open for an elderly couple who were leaving, and then let Michelle walk through in front of him. 

 

“You know, I could have gotten the door myself,” Michelle insisted, as she sat down at the table they were directed to.

 

“I know _you_ could have gotten it, but _I_ wanted to,” Peter smiled crookedly as he propped open his menu.  

 

“So…” Michelle stated after she had looked over her own menu for a few minutes, “ _ Larb _ is an actual thing that exists, huh? What exactly  _ is  _ it?”

 

“It's basically just a meat salad, kinda like chicken or tuna salad, except it's flavored with lime juice and fish sauce instead of America’s favorite, mayonnaise.” Peter explained, closing his menu and fiddling with his watch strap. 

 

Michelle made a grossed-out face at the mention of mayo. “Is that what you usually get?”

 

“Um, yeah. I usually get the duck larb, but you can also get it with chicken, beef, pork or fish. You can get it with most meats, actually. It’s something Aunt May and I ate a lot when I lived back in Queens.” Peter smiled, fondly, thinking back on all the times he used to share his meals with his aunt and uncle. 

 

Peter continued, “Uncle Ben was a real foodie; he loved to try new things all the time. Jamaican, Filipino, African... If you gave him anything with a kick or some heat to it, he was happy as a clam.”

 

“I know it happened a long time ago, but I never told you how sorry I was to hear about your uncle. He was a good man.” Michelle traced the front of her menu with one finger, uncomfortable with her show of emotional vulnerability.

 

“Thanks,” Peter smiled softly. “It was a long time ago, but I still miss him sometimes.”

 

Peter sat back once the waitress came by to take their order, folding his straw paper into an accordion and pretending to play it along to the muzak coming from the overhead speakers. Michelle rolled her eyes at his cheesiness, laughing when she shot her straw paper across the table at him and it got stuck in his hair.

 

Peter shook his head like a wet dog trying to dry off after a bath, but the paper wouldn't budge, causing Michelle to laugh even harder. 

 

“Here -- let me,” she forced out between laughs, leaning over the table to pluck it off his head, hardly noticing Peter's hand reaching into his glass and retrieving an ice cube before he shoved it down the back of her shirt.

 

“Peter!” Michelle shrieked, laughing and twisting and turning, back and forth, as she tried to get the ice cube out of her top. Thankfully there weren't any other patrons in the restaurant, or they probably would have gotten a lot of dirty looks because of the ruckus they were making.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Peter apologized, holding his sides to try and contain his laughter. 

 

“You're lucky I  _ like  _ you, Parker.” Michelle ground out after finally retrieving the dripping ice cube from inside her shirt, and tossing onto a nearby table.

 

Once their food came, they calmed down and their discussion trickled down to comments about the food and the basketball game on the TV in the restaurant.

 

After paying the bill, they compiled both their funds, exited the building and strolled a few more blocks.

 

“Peter?” Michelle’s voice floated to him as he watched the green, yellow and red of the nearby stoplight flashing across the black asphalt and dingy sidewalk.

 

“Hmm?” he tilted his head to catch a glimpse of her face, admiring the curve of her cheek and the slope of her long neck.

 

“Have you ever had a dream?” She turned her head, a serious note in the tone of her voice.

 

Peter was ready to quip, “Yeah,  _ of course _ , every night,”  _ sometimes about you,  _ but he stopped himself at the look on her face.  “Of course, doesn't everybody?” he said instead, looking her in the eyes. He found himself caught up in the swirl of brown and amber that made up her irises.

 

“What's yours?” Michelle asked, stopping in place and leaning up against the graffiti covered metal security door of a closed business.

 

“Oh, um,” Peter said, thinking. “I guess I always wanted to be a photographer, even when I was a kid; maybe work for a reputable newspaper. Every year since I was ten years old, I asked my Uncle Ben and Aunt May for a camera for my birthday.”  He chuckled. “I never got one, but I’ve been saving up and I hope to be able to buy a decent one and take a few classes; maybe get a degree, eventually.”    
  


Peter shrugged, “There's just something about capturing the beaming smile on an honor roll student’s face, or seeing the depth of anguish in a victim’s eyes. Those are the things that makes us human, ya know?” 

 

Michelle nodded thoughtfully, ignoring the ebb and flow of pedestrians that passed along the sidewalk in front of them.

 

“So what do  _ you  _ dream about?” Peter asked, leaning against the rough brick wall next to her. 

 

“I just-- I just want to make a  _ difference  _ with my writing. Touch people with my words; make them think harder about our world, and how we treat this planet we’ve been given. I want to teach people tolerance, and how to care about the world we’re living in.” Michelle sighed, adding softly, “ _ I don't want much _ .”

 

“ _ Hey _ , if anyone can do it,  _ you  _ can,” Peter smiled. “Maybe we’ll be able to coordinate an article or something together one day, or maybe even a  _ magazine _ , Ms. Editor.” 

 

“Maybe,” Michelle smiled ruefully, then turned to start walking again.  

 

She stopped at a open snow cone stand a few blocks away. They both got a small paper cone of flavored ice, and continued their walk to the bus stop. 

 

Peter tasted his, the tang of the blue raspberry was delicious. There was something about the blue syrup that just tasted better, at least in his opinion.

 

Peter watched as Michelle took a taste of hers, and she smiled slightly when she caught him staring. “ _ What _ ?” 

 

“I was just wondering if yours was any good,” Peter replied.

 

“Here,” she offered the cone to him, “try it.” 

 

His hand grazed hers as she lifted the cone to his lips. 

 

“Mmm, that's good. What flavor is yours?” Peter asked, looking into her eyes.

 

“Pineapple,” she smiled, retrieving the cone with her opposite hand and clasping his other hand in hers.

 

Peter stared at her for a few seconds, his arm stretched out between them as Michelle kept walking. She treated their hand-holding like it was no big deal, so Peter decided to do that as well. 

 

He tried not to think about the sweat coating his palms all of a sudden, or the softness of her palm against his. 

 

_ Be cool, be cool, be cool. _

 

They arrived at the bus stop and Peter dropped his hold on her hand, afraid to take this new aspect to their relationship too far, too soon. Michelle gave him a curious look, but seemed to understand and relaxed her stance as well, grasping onto the straps of her backpack as they waited.

 

Peter sighed, anxious to make it home after a long day of work.  Michelle’s company had been amazing tonight, but all he really wanted to do was watch the  _ Late Show _ and go to bed.

 

Finally the bus squealed to a stop, and Peter and Michelle climbed aboard, grateful to be heading home.  He plopped down in one of the empty seats, curious when Michelle sat down beside him, though he wasn’t sure why. She sighed heavily, laying her head against his shoulder. She grabbed his hand from where it rested in his lap, and intertwined her fingers with his.

 

Peter opened his mouth to argue that she didn't  _ have  _ to hold his hand if she didn't want to, but she shut him up almost instantly with just a look.

 

Apparently, this was how they were going to act from now on, and Peter was, unsurprisingly, okay with that.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
  


Peter closed the door behind them, locking it perfunctorily, before shoving the key ring in his pocket and grabbing the laundry bag resting by the door. Michelle grunted as she lifted the laundry basket holding her larger pile of clothes and the bottle of detergent onto her hip. Peter knew better than to offer to carry the heavier basket, unless he wanted to hear her rant all the way down to the first floor laundry room about misogyny, and men’s belief that they could do everything better.  _ She could lift a damn laundry basket on her own, thank you very much!  _

 

He had heard it all before, and thought it best not to rile her, especially since they were about to spend the next few hours in the sweltering laundry room with only each other for company. Michelle was very good at the silent treatment, and Peter didn’t want to be on the other end of that, either.

 

“So, I was walking Goblin this morning --  _ Shut up! I take him out sometimes and he was giving me those sad eyes, you know the look. --  _ and Mr. Deaton from the seventh floor was trying to hit on me.” Michelle shuddered, visibly.

 

“Wait, you’re saying you're  _ not  _ into bald heads and oily mustaches?” Peter teased.

 

“More like  _ disgusted _ , especially considering his thinly-veiled racist comments,” Michelle argued. “Not to mention how he’s always sucking on those horrible smelling cheroots.” 

 

“Chill out, I was just  _ playing _ .” Peter ducked when Michelle sent a hand flying toward his ear, laughing, not even realizing that he was about to bump into another tenant. He whirled around and immediately started apologizing.

 

“Oh, sorry-- excuse me. I wasn’t looking…” Peter trailed off as the woman kept walking, not even paying attention to him. 

 

Michelle snickered, miming his apology. 

 

Peter rolled his eyes, ducking into the ugly wallpapered laundry room and swiped his laundry card at the nearest empty machine. Michelle followed him, dumping her basket onto the floor. She took Peter’s bag from him, sorting his laundry into piles along with hers. Peter tried to ignore the flash of her nude underwear against the plaid of his boxers, but he felt his face grow warm the more he tried not to think about it. 

 

Knowing Michelle, she had probably noticed his embarrassment, but he was pretty sure she wouldn’t say anything, either. They were slowly getting closer and Peter didn’t want to botch it up by being too weird. He forced himself to think about other things. 

 

The rush of the water in the drum of the washing machine was loud in his ears and a nearby dryer was making the room unusually warm, causing Peter to yawn loudly.

 

“What’s the matter?” Michelle taunted. “Didn’t get much sleep last night? Weren’t you up building ridiculous Lego worlds with Ned last night?”

 

“They weren’t Lego  _ worlds _ , they were  _ Lego Star Wars planets _ .” 

 

“Whatever. Shouldn't you have grown out of that by now?” Michelle pulled herself up onto the lid of the washing machine, kicking her legs against the side of the machine and making a hollow drumming sound.

 

“It helps me think,” Peter shrugged. “Plus, it’s kind of a tradition between Ned and I. We’ve built Lego sets ever since elementary school, when Uncle Ben started buying them for me. There are so many pieces, it’s just easier with two people.” 

 

“Keeping the dream alive,” Michelle drawled, a glimmer in her eye, belying her dry tone. 

 

“Something like that.” Peter strolled over to the dryer to check the time.

 

“Come here,” Michelle gestured, a somewhat lopsided grin on her lips.

 

“Hmm, what?” he asked curiously.

 

“Come  _ here _ . Come on.”

 

“What, what is it?” Peter came closer, stopping to stand in front of her.

 

“Your hair is sticking up, and it’s distracting me.” Michelle explained.

 

“You can’t stand the fact that my hair's a mess, can you?” Peter teased, tweaking her tangle of curls where it hung over her shoulder, “You know yours has always been the same way.”

 

“Hmm,” Michelle said.  “Maybe I thought it was adorable, or  _ maybe _ I just wanted to touch you, Peter.  Ever think about  _ that _ ?” She stared straight into his eyes, and Peter couldn't help but be mesmerized as her hand came up to pat down the curls atop his head.

 

Peter pulled his head up, watching her closely through darkened eyes as her hand came to rest gently against the side of his face.

 

His heart was pounding in his chest, and her tongue flicked out to wet her lips, distracting him, as his eyes glanced down and back up again. 

 

In her eyes was a look of challenge, and Peter swallowed at the thought of their lips meeting. Her other arm wrapped around his shoulders slowly, giving him time to back out, had he wanted. He knew he couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Peter closed his eyes, leaning in, and he could feel the soft puff of her breath against his lips.

 

“What's  _ up _ , losers!” Ned barged in, noisy and big, the room filling up with his boisterous personality. Peter jerked his head up in surprise, causing his feet to slip on the slick linoleum and lose his balance. Thankfully, he fell right into a laundry basket. 

 

“Dude, what was the  _ hell _ was that?” Ned snorted, while Michelle started giggling uncontrollably. Peter gave her a look of righteous indignation. Throwing his hand out for help, Ned grasped him and pulled him free, while Michelle hopped off from the washing machine to pick a dryer sheet off his back.

 

“You just scared me, that’s all!” Peter's voice rose on the last syllable, causing him to sound guilty. Which he very clearly was  _ not _ .  _ Nope, not at all. _

 

Michelle stood behind him, a look of almost-perfect innocence on her face. Peter glared at her and she mock-glared back, clearly entertained with the current situation, and Peter's obvious embarrassment. 

 

“Mmm  _ hmm _ ,” Ned hummed, not convinced. Clearly, there had been something going on just a moment before. He smirked at Peter before crossing the room.

 

_ Stupid Ned and his stupid smug looks.  _

 

“ _ So,  _ what are you two up to? Laundry day, eh? Peter has clearly been fondling some delicates,” Ned insinuated, glancing downwards towards Peter's crotch, before waggling his eyebrows at Michelle. 

 

Michelle rolled her eyes, more as a matter of principle than actual annoyance. 

 

Peter was gonna kill him! 

 

“Ned,” Peter warned. 

 

“What?” he asked innocently.   

 

Peter groaned, inwardly. “Ned, don’t you have  _ anywhere  _ else to be right now?”

 

“A awesome, charming guy like me can't hang out with his friends? When did that become a crime?” 

 

Peter sighed, exasperated. 

 

“Dude, are these yours?” Ned cooed, holding up a teeny-tiny pair of boy shorts.  

 

Peter stared, gaping at Michelle, who literally blushed, before snatching them out of Ned’s hands and shoving the two boys towards the door.

 

“That’s it!” she declared. “I’ve  _ got  _ this! Go build another of your Star Trek ships or whatever.”

 

“Star Wars!” both boys corrected, as the door was slammed shut in their faces. 

  
  


 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Hey, uh, where  _ were  _ you? You missed dinner! Ned was telling me this hilarious story about Mr. Harrington and a CO2 canister…” Peter trailed off, his eyes soft, their color indistinguishable in the dim light as he studied Michelle, who was staring at him blankly. “Are you okay?”

 

“Oh,” Michelle said. “I was at the MET, I just had some things to think about.” She fiddled with the strap on her bag, her bangs hanging forward, obscuring her face. 

 

Peter wasn't surprised by her response. Michelle preferred museums when she had hard situations to work out -- articles to plan out, deep thoughts to consider, sarcastic comments to form -- well, maybe not that last one, but really -- Peter couldn't figure out how she came up with her one-liners so quickly:  she had to have them planned out. 

 

“Oh, um--  well, did you figure everything out?” Peter asked, leaning against the wall a few feet away from where she was standing.

 

Michelle shrugged, dropping her bag randomly on the kitchen table.  This surprised him; she was always the tidy one, while Peter was the one who left things everywhere in the apartment. She was always complaining to him about it:  _ Peter, honestly, why are your shoes always all over the place? I swear, if I trip on them one more time, they're going in the incinerator! _

 

“Anything I can do to help?” Peter asked, crossing his arms.  He watched her as she went calmly about the process of making a cup of tea. 

 

“Shouldn't you be taking notes?” Michelle asked, ignoring his question. She looked over at him with a tiny smile.  

 

“ _ Excuse me _ ?” Peter stepped closer, propping his elbows up on the butcher block.

 

“You heard me,” Michelle said. “You should be taking notes. You don't want to be a screw up your whole life, right?”

 

“Wow,” Peter scoffed. “I think I can get by in life without being able to make the  _ perfect  _ cup of tea.  After all, this is  _ America _ , not the British High Court.”

 

“Are you  _ sure  _ about that?” Michelle turned, her back propped against the countertop, a steaming cup of tea cradled in her palms. 

 

Peter suddenly wasn't sure that they were talking about the same thing. He gulped as she made her way around the corner of the island, suddenly abandoning her cup on the counter. 

 

_ What was she up to?  _

 

She edged closer, crowding into his space.  Peter’s hands gripped tightly on the smooth wooden surface, nervousness shooting into his nerve endings.

 

“I mean,” she continued, “if we’re going to be living together, and you can't make me a perfect cup of tea, I’m not so sure how well this relationship is going to work out.”

 

Peter was stunned.  “Relationship? W-wha--?” Peter sputtered out.

 

“C’mon, Peter.  Did you really think we would be able to  _ kiss  _ and stay platonic, friendly roommates?” Michelle cocked her head to the side.

 

“ _ Kiss? _ ” Peter asked. He couldn't believe his ears. 

 

_ Was she really saying what he thought she was saying? _

 

_ “But _ \-- wait … how -- what?” Peter stared at her helplessly; his brain going all fuzzy like a lost cable TV connection.

 

“How did I know you liked me?” Michelle grinned smugly. “For one, you're always staring at me with that vacant expression, like you're imagining me with no clothes on.” 

 

_ Oh my God. _

 

Peter blushed and Michelle continued on. 

 

“Two, you're always protected me.  Even when we were in high school, you never made fun of me, like the other kids did. You were always accepting, no matter how strangely I acted.” 

 

“Well, you  _ were  _ pretty weird but I liked that,” Peter admitted. “I never knew what to expect with you -- still don't, by the way.” 

 

“That's the way I like it.” Michelle grinned. “Get used to it.”

 

“And three, that night when you made me a PB&J sandwich, ‘cause I only had chips for dinner.” 

 

Peter felt confused. “Why was  _ that  _ a giveaway?”

 

“Because you  _ cared _ ,” she said.  “No one else had ever been that thoughtful towards me before. You even offered to make me tea, even though you knew you weren’t the best at it.”

 

Peter stared, unable to respond.

 

“What?” she said, defensively. “I had a lot of time to think about it today.” After a moment, she added, “Don't you have anything to tell me?”

 

“ _ I  _ have to say stuff now?” Peter acted surprised, raising his eyebrows.

 

Michelle just stared at him with her arms crossed.

 

“Okay, okay,” he said finally.  “Well, I guess it really clicked in my mind, after I had the accident and you held me. You had never comforted me before, and then you started to accept Goblin…. and, I don't know. It just  _ happened _ .” 

 

“What did you expect me to do when you were hurt? Act like I hated your guts? You were still my  _ friend _ ,” Michelle replied.  “But … I mean, I didn’t just come out of obligation, either,” she admitted. “I wanted to be there.”

 

Peter bowed his head, almost overwhelmed by the happiness that was filling up inside of him. Michelle watched him, feeling her emotions bursting over, but better at hiding it. She didn’t want him to see just how much he affected her. 

 

_ “Well _ ,” Peter said. “If we're going to do this thing, I have a few stipulations. One. You have to watch the original Star Wars trilogy with me,  _ without  _ making sarcastic comments about it.” 

 

“ _ Manageable _ .” 

 

“Two. Maybe you could think about moving the  _ less  _ dangerous plants into the bathroom, if you must have some in there, and take that Hulk of a cactus outside to the fire escape.” 

 

Michelle watched him for a minute, making Peter wonder if her plant-lady status was going to be the relationship breaker, until she finally nodded. “ _ Fine _ , but I don't want to hear any complaints about the bathroom turning into a rainforest, or whatever foolishness you're going to come up with.”

 

“ _ Fine _ , “ he conceded.  “Three...” Peter looked around, but nothing else came to mind and her closeness was very distracting.

 

“Three?” Michelle prompted.

 

“OK, I’ve got nothing.” Peter laughed, and Michelle rolled her eyes.

 

Peter felt anticipation welling up inside him. Michelle's nose had a smattering of freckles across it, which he had never noticed before, and her eyelashes were dark where they rested against her cheeks. Obviously, he couldn't lie and say that he had  _ never  _ been attracted to her, but he had also never really noticed her underlying beauty until that moment. It was like looking through a radio telescope at a faraway star, and suddenly realizing how unique and beautiful it was.

 

He lifted his hand to her cheek, gently sweeping his thumb across the slope of her cheekbone. She turned her head into his palm, like a cat longing to be stroked. 

 

Peter reacted impulsively, an undefinable feeling swelling up inside of him, as he pecked the tip of her nose with his lips. Michelle squeaked, her eyes flying open in surprise. She stared at him for a long moment, his hand still on her cheek, before she cocked her head to the side and smirked at him as if to say, “That’s cute, but not exactly what I had in mind.” 

 

Peter swallowed hard, his heart racing at the promise in her eyes. His palms started sweating and he prayed that she wouldn't notice. 

 

Her hands reached for his cheeks, the coolness of her palms soothing against his heated face, until she set him aflame with her lips. 

 

The first touch of her lips was soft and tentative. He wasn't a hundred percent sure, but he thought he might be her first kiss. Peter was pleasantly surprised at the warmth and softness of her lips until she tilted her head, and  _ wow,  _ her lips caressed his in a totally different way. 

 

His hand dropped from her cheek to rest against the curve of her waist, his fingers gripping the fabric of her t-shirt, as he let her take the lead. 

 

She opened her mouth against his and Peter couldn't believe how immediate his response was. He groaned into her mouth as she threaded her fingers through his curls, gripping them like a lifeline. The first touch of her tongue on his sent a bolt of desire shooting through him. She was merciless, but Peter didn't care; he could have lived off this kiss for years.

 

She eased up, her kisses becoming softer, and although they were sweeter, they also seemed more reluctant, and Peter wouldn't have cared if they kept going, if they didn't need air to breathe.

 

Michelle leaned back slightly, her eyes smokey and dilated, her breath raspy and pulling deep from her chest, where it was resting against his own. Peter lifted a hand and tucked her hair behind her ear, where his fingers lingered near her cheek once again, before he leaned in once again to capture her lips. 

 

He drew her closer, his arm tight around her waist, as his other hand rested softly against the side of her neck. 

 

She moaned low in her throat as he nipped gently at her lips, coaxing them open once more. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as he pushed her into the doorway of the kitchen, gasping as her back caught up against the butcher’s block. The push and pull of their tongues and lips were like the ebb and flow of the ocean tides. 

 

They separated suddenly, both too breathless to carry on.

 

Peter grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling, at the dazed look in her eyes and the heightened color in her cheeks. She was captivating, as she smiled at him shyly. 

 

“So … do you want a PB&J?” Peter asked, teasingly. 

 

“ _ What? _ ” Michelle pulled back to look at him, her arms still draped around his shoulders. “We just had this ridiculously sappy moment, and all you have to say to me is whether I want one of your stupid sandwiches?”

 

Peter studied her with amusement, seeing the love shining through the depth of her eyes, betraying her irritated response to his question. He chuckled in response and shrugged.

 

“So... you’re going to be this annoying from now on?” Michelle asked, her fingers running through the back of his hair.

 

Peter shivered at the touch of her fingers, then laughed, “ _ Probably.” _

 

_ “ _ Oh -- you might want to take some cooking classes, then, unless you want to eat sandwiches and questionable takeout for the foreseeable future.” Peter added.

 

He chuckled as Michelle jumped into a lecture about men and their misconceptions about women, and how they belonged in the kitchen. 

 

Peter waited her out, unphased by her ranting. 

 

When she finally paused for breath, he asked, “So...do you want a PB&J?” 

 

Michelle stared, uncomprehending for a moment. 

 

“Now that you can have some milk!” he finished, bursting into laughter.

 

Michelle lunged, trying to punch him, and Peter dodged, laughing as he ran from her into the living room. 

 

Michelle chased him, her socks causing her to slip and slide all over the floor,  _ “Parker!”  _

 

Goblin’s eyes followed them as they raced around the room giggling, yelling and tossing couch pillows back and forth, sighing heavily, before he closed his eyes and went back to sleep. 


End file.
